Monday, 9 November 2015

The Pied Piper of Mandalay Street

My grandparents/father's house Greenock, Scotland 1941

My Grandmother
remembered him as a small man which, next to her, meant someone around
five feet tall. Yet, as a kid, I can still see him smiling in our front
window as he passed us on the way to the corner shop which means he had
to be taller. To all of us he was, and always will be, one giant of a
man and not just Freddy Stalwart from number thirty-two; he will always
live on in our hearts as the Pied Piper of Mandalay Street.

The first time I met
Freddy he had only moved to Mandalay after his family had been bombed
out over in the east side. He was older than me, probably eighteen or
nineteen at the time, with a wide face you could take to. His hair was
short cropped and I guess he was going into the army any day soon. I
watched as he walked up towards the railway viaduct and rolled a
cigarette at the same time. When he approached the viaduct, he stood
under the biggest arch and by means of looking up and sideways he seemed
to be positioning himself. I smiled over at him and he waved back. He
looked at his watch and a few seconds later a train passed over, not
just any train but the one transporting the American troops from the
port to the city. He waved up with both arms crossing over each other
and immediately the American soldiers threw cigarettes and sweets from
the windows. Freddy signalled his thanks with his two thumbs up and some
voice from above called ‘see you on the way back, buddy’.

“I think it’s a good luck thing with the boys” he said and he seemed satisfied with that.

You’d think I’d
remember after all these years how exactly tall he was but I don’t, I
just remember him being like the big brother I never had. He told me he
couldn’t fight in the war as his leg had been crushed by a tractor, it
was then I noticed he walked with a slight limp which he tried to hide
by walking like Gary Cooper. I guess that sounds stupid now but that’s
how it felt.

On the way back to
number thirty two, he pushed what was left of his sweets and cigarettes
through the letter boxes of the houses he passed. Some doors opened but
the occupants were always late as Freddy was too far down the street to
hear the shouts of ‘thanks’. There were some down Mandalay Street that
saw his kindness as a weakness and one that should be exploited.

“How come you’ve given number twenty-six a pack of cigs and left me out? No one smokes in that house”

Freddy would just apologise, smile then wander on - he never really took it to heart.

One day there were
bags and suitcases being enthusiastically thrown out the door of number
thirty-two, followed by Freddy’s mother marching purposefully into the
street. She jumped on to a waiting horse and cart that was being driven
by a rag and bone man and she promptly rode into the sunset. It seems
his mother had never been happy in that house and wanted to take her
chances with her old neighbours. Their place had been relatively
untouched and she didn’t need to be asked twice when they offered her a
room in their attic. Freddy’s father was still overseas which left
Freddy the sole occupant of number thirty-two.

To make ends meet he
got a job driving a single-decker bus from Albert Street to the north
end of town, even with his bad leg he was still a better driver than
most. His cheery disposition and his smile were always a winner with the
passengers and he’d break into a George Formby song just to lift their
spirits, especially if there had been a raid the night before. He was
known as Freddy the Bus and everyone knew and liked him.

On a Saturday evening,
if he wasn’t working, he enjoyed a dance in the hall. This was a half
constructed building at the bottom end of Mandalay Street, its
completion having been halted by the war. Locally it had been known as
the ‘broken hut’ but the gaping hole in the roof had resulted in its new
name, the Skylight Club. Many a time, a dance was interrupted by the
sudden downpour of rain and of course they weren’t allowed to use it
during the hours of darkness as this would provide a beacon of welcome
for the Luftwaffe.

When they could, they
held the Sunday school in the hall and I remember Andrew Cassidy, my
best pal at the time, shouting that the hole was there so God could keep
an eye on us. We never felt comfortable on a Sunday morning after
that.

Mandalay Street
managed to survive from day to day as most of the bombing was over by
the shipyards and towards the east side of town, Then one week, when
there had been no raids for several days, we all got together and threw a
party for the children. Some of us dressed as clowns, some came to the
hall in their uniforms and looked ever so smart but the highlight was
Freddy and his George Formby songs. Every one joined in and it seemed to
cheer us up.

Freddy and I were
walking home and joking when the incendiary bombs hit the far end of the
street. One had started a fire in the middle of the road and was being
dealt with, when someone shouted that the Skylight Club was on fire. I
don’t know how much difference a roof would have made but it seems the
bomb dropped through the hole on a small parachute.

By the time we got
back to the Skylight, some parents and their children were staggering
out with blackened faces and coughing. Some of the older ones attempted
to start a line of buckets and water but it didn’t do much good as the
hall was burning fast.

Freddy ran straight into the building and returned with two small children over his shoulders.

“I can hear the others; they’re trapped by the smoke”

By our reckoning some
twenty of the children and parents were still stuck in one corner of the
room but the smoke was so dense that neither they, nor the rescuers
cold locate where they were. That was when Freddy came up with an idea.
He ran home and fetched his father’s old bagpipes and returned with them
slung over his shoulder.

“Can you play them?” I asked.

“Not a chance” he
joked, then Freddy entered the burning hall making the biggest racket
I’ve ever heard, but it worked. Nearly all of them made it out by
following Freddy’s pipes.

“Anyone left in there?” asked Freddy when we’d counted eighteen.

“My mother and my sister” said the small shivering girl.

Freddy ran back into the building, it was the last time I saw him.

After the war, when the hall was rebuilt of brick, it was named The Freddy Stalwart Building.

About Me

I was born in the West Coast of Scotland - a beautiful part of the world. Grew up in Paris, France and Woodstock, New York. I studied writing at college and gained a Masters. I wrote a short film 'Stealing Moses' which was selected by the British Urban Film Festival, 2015 and was supported by Channel 4. I have been selected to pitch at BAFTA, twice. I trained through TAPS at Emmerdale and The Bill.